


Give me a hand

by allthe_subtext



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Ending, Canon Compliant, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Tom Blake is Dead, Tom is a Sweetheart, William Schofield Dies, but also kind of, but everything turns out alright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24285022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthe_subtext/pseuds/allthe_subtext
Summary: It starts under a tree and ends in an orchard. Because William Schofield is dead, but so is a certain someone else.*****“...Blake?”“Hey Sco.”
Relationships: Lance Corporal Blake/Lance Corporal Schofield, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Give me a hand

William Schofield is dead.

He closes his eyes to the sickly ache of an infection, against the burn of fever, and opens them to a river. The sound of bubbling water trickles through his ears, blue stream blending in with the jackets of the corpses. Cherry blossoms bob gently through the dead, and Will knows, suddenly and certainly, that this is it. He’s dead. 

A petal veined with gold flutters to a rest on his hand, and it clenches in remembered pain. Pain, he realizes, raising his palm to inspect, that is no longer there.

_Stuck my hand through a bloody Hun._

After all that, it was the barbed wire that got him. If Blake was here, he’d laugh at him for being an idiot, but Blake died a bloody hero and he’s _not._ He intakes sharply. No use in dwelling.

He turns, and the landscape shifts with him, sights and sounds melting together in a mosaic of vivid color and whispered memory.

_This time of year, it looks like it’s been snowing._

And now he’s back in the orchard, alone this time, wandering among the fallen branches, and he thinks that Blake was right. The blossoms coat worn gray walls and grass stained scarlet, coat the helmet of the boy who’s frozen in time.

Will’s breath hitches.

Because Blake is lounging atop the branches of a cherry tree, and he was right about that too, they’ve all grown back and number more than before. Blake, who was injured and bleeding, blood matching the crimson of his lips and dust coating a paling face. Blake, who is here.

Petals twirl, dancing in the biting air, pulled inexorably to the ground, as Will takes a stumbling step forward, urged by the same force of nature.

“...Blake?” His voice cracks, this time. He lets it break.

Blake grins at him. “Hey Sco.”

“I-“ _I’m sorry, for I left your body there to rot, I’m sorry you didn’t make it to your brother, I’m sorry I didn’t save you. I’m sorry I ever loved you, because you deserve better. (Except I’m not, I never could be, and I’m sorry for that too-)._ His throat closes before he can get any of it out, regrets strangling him even now.

Blake must see something flicker in his expression, for he interrupts what’s certain to be an apology. “Did you make it?” he blurts, then regrets it. “I mean, obviously you didn’t make it, but my brother?-” Hope eclipses his youthful face, dimming at the grief that must flicker across Will’s.

He hurries to reassure him. “Alive. Got there just in time to stop the second wave. Couldn’t save the first, though,” he says, bitterly.

Understanding, along with pride, war on Blake’s face. “You did bloody well enough, Sco.” A “thank you” is tucked in, tenderly, between the folds.

“Will.”

“What?”

“Call me Will.”

Blake’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and Will savors the privilege of being there to see it, basks in the warmth of a sunny day. “Then you can call me Tom.” A pause. Tom never could stand silence for very long, though, so he’s quick to break it. “So, what got you in the end?” he asks without thinking. Again. Damnit.

Will just laughs, the sound bright, before waving away Tom’s stammered apologies. “Infection from the hand.”

Tom wrinkles his nose. “Guess the consequences were worse than not being able to wank for a bit, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Tom gazes at him with delight. He’d never been so carefree on the battlefield, and they were rarely off it. “Well, c’mon Will,” he says, eyes dancing, “don’t just stand there. Get up here and help me pick the cherries, won’t you? Told you it takes all day.” The world tilts again, to reveal summer sun peeking from behind boughs and ripe fruit hiding among them.

Will swallows through a dry throat. “You did tell me.” That trivial conversation seems so long ago. Two lifetimes ago, to be exact.

They have many things to discuss, countless nightmares to confess, but all Will wants to do right now is revel in the glory of Tom’s presence. Tom, who’s raising a brow.

“Well? We haven’t got all day," he says cheekily. Will gives him a dry look, but something glows in his face. Because they both know they’ve finally got time. For the second time in 48 hours, Thomas Blake outstretches a hand.

It’s a symbol, a message of trust and love and affection. But most of all, it’s an invitation.

Will smiles and takes it.

**Author's Note:**

> We all know, including them, that it's the wrong hand, but let's indulge Tom this once, hm? Will definitely will.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and have a wonderful day!
> 
> PS. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated and cherished


End file.
